Aeron
by MagpieMinx
Summary: The tale of a vampire in Gotham City, in a series of short stories and chapters.
1. Chapter 1

The Joker stared at the girl sprawled in his desk chair, one leg up and over the side. She was lean and leggy, and very, very pale. She was watching him with an abnormally cool expression, and that fascinated him.

"Sooooo," he said, drawing the word out to break the dead silence. His fingers flicked over the drawn knife in his hand, betraying agitation. She said nothing, but he frowned behind his painted smile as her strange stillness bothered him. There was something… wrong… about her. Her cold face broke into an icy smile.

"You're certainly keep me guessing," she remarked casually, "I expected a little bit of a scene, not a dumbfounded expression and absent knife-play." She raised a perfect eyebrow, and tilted her head, causing her hair to catch the light. It was not the brown he had dismissed it as, but a gorgeous coppery-bronze color that was impossible to name.

"At least I don't, you know, disappoint," the Joker said slowly, and began to stalk a little closer. She looked like a piece of living marble as she watched him approach behind lowered, dark lashes through irises that were black as night. There was no difference between them and the pupil. It sent a strange shiver through the Joker as he loomed over her.

"Indeed," she mused quietly, the smile fading. The knife apparently did not bother her as he placed the tip delicately against the corner of her mouth, slipping the blade between her lips. She stared at his face, studying it.

"You're… interested in my..." he paused significantly, turning to regard her from the corner of his eye, "Scars?" He was wary, but beginning to enjoy himself a little. This seemingly pliant, quiet individual made him excited to see how far he could push before she broke. His free hand came up to hold her by the jaw delicately, turning her face just so, and she let him. His heartbeat sped up, and a grin began to tug at his mouth.

"You see," he said, adjusting his grip to hold her face just a little tighter, pressing the blade harder against the corner of her mouth, "I had this girlfriend who was an alcoholic, and she was a little… cra-azy." He wiggled his eyebrows, and the playful gesture was threatening. He increased the pressure, but not enough to make her bleed, not yet. She had self-control, he was willing to give her that. "And at the time," he continued his story, hiding his growing unease at her total self-possession, "I had trouble keeping jobs. And I was kind of… well, depressssssed." He hissed the 's' in the last word and held it. He considered the end of the story.

"So, one night… I come home after another… ah, rejection, and she's drunk. Off her ass," he added, "And she gets angry with me when she hears that I still don't have a job, and she starts… laughing. Hysterics, you know," he said, nodding as if to himself. "And she keeps asking why I don't see the funny side of it, how she can keep a job and I can't, while coming at me with a knife from the kitchen, where we were, oh yes, standing." The girl's face seemed immutable, but the eyes seemed to darken while he watched. "So she puts the knife in my mouth and carves this, uh, smile into my face, all the while asking me…"

"Why so serious?" the cool voice said beneath him. The Joker stopped and nodded with a manic smile on his face.

"Yes, that's right," he said, gripping her face hard now and getting nose-to-nose with the girl, "Why… so… serious." He slashed at the corners of her mouth, seeing the blood fly while he began to cackle... And then he found himself seated at his own desk with the wood coming at his face altogether too quickly. There was a bang and he felt pain, but it had all happened too fast for him to really understand what, exactly, had passed.

"Huh. Well, you don't disappoint after all," the girl's voice rang loud and clear, dispassionately. The Joker put a hand to his forehead, shocked enough that his mouth was hanging slightly open. There was a brief silence before he recovered enough to say something.

"How many times do I have to tell people not to start with the head?" he said, unintentionally a little breathy. There was a muted 'thok,' and a sharp pain in his hand. He looked slowly at the source of the new throbbing to see his own blade between the bones of his hand, pinning it to the desk. Her fingertips were still on the handle, and they remained there.

"Better?" she asked, and he nodded mutely. The Joker was no fool, and recognized that he had been beaten. She pulled the blade cleanly out of his flesh, and turned the chair sideways to face her. The Joker examined his wound, and then waved his other hand in the air.

"How did you do that...?" he trailed off and flitted his hand about in the air. "That… thing?"

"I'm capable of it," she replied, and he stared at her, uncomprehending, his head whirling. There were no scars on her cheeks, no gaping edges to her mouth, carved in a permanent smile. All that was left was a little blood spattered on her shirt, lurid against the white. He was looking at her face, calculating, wondering, and a little afraid. Her lips quirked in a knowing smirk, but he was fascinated by the smooth, unmarked cheeks.

"Are you quite done?" she asked lightly, tossing hair out of her face in an elegant, casual way.

"Um, uh, well, ah, yes," he said a little reluctantly.

"Good," she said smoothly, crossing her arms over her chest, "Then I'd like to propose a… business deal. I've been watching you for a while, and you seem to be the best choice."

"Ahhhh," the Joker said, letting out his breath, and her eyes darted to his hand quickly before focusing on his face. "Well, you see, it all… depends."

"You need to lay low for a while," she said, turning away suddenly, arms falling to swing at her sides, "Having just escaped from Arkham and all. I'll keep you busy in here. So there's your benefit." The Joker launched himself out of the chair and at her back. She sidestepped easily and turned, cuffing him lightly across the back of his skull with his own knife.

"Damn it," she groused, "I thought you said you were done." The Joker straightened up, brushing off his vest with his uninjured hand.

"So then, what's in it for you?" he asked nonchalantly, as if it had been little more than reflex that he had tried to surprise her. Her blatant grin revealed two elongated, sharp-as-knives canine teeth.

"Entertainment. Some sustenance. A little stress relief," she purred, her expression turning wicked. "Nothing much." Again, things happened much too fast for the Joker to keep track of actual events. She had him trapped against the brick wall, her hand tangled in his hair and pulling his head back, and her teeth in his throat all at once. The Joker struggled against the slighter, smaller female, but the vampire would not be budged. The raw heat of pain in his neck was almost unbearable. He could hear fluid rushing, could hear her swallowing greedily, and he was weakening. The agonizing pain stopped, soothed suddenly by her tongue swiping over the puncture wounds, and then she was suddenly back in the desk chair, watching with a dark smile, lips stained with blood.

"Vampire!" The word slipped from his mouth in a reverent tone before he could stop himself, and the Joker was in awe. Within his grasp were immortality, supernatural power, and the ability to terrorize Gotham forever. Now he understood.

"Indeed," she answered, licking away the blood as unconcernedly as a cat.

"And tell me," he said, one hand touching the side of his neck and coming away with the little blood that was still smeared there, "Do you plan on making me like you?" Her eyes glittered as he licked his fingertips clean.

"No," she answered, "Though it's a tempting idea. Unfortunately, if I do, Batman gets his own dose of vampire blood and then you really will be locked together in combat for eternity." She smiled again, brilliantly this time. "And I don't fancy having the both of you as companions for eternity."

"Well, aren't you the good citizen? Thought I was entertaining," the Joker commented, approaching her cautiously. Her smiled was changing again, darkening wickedly.

"You are," she said silkily, "Now come here, and I'll promise we'll both enjoy."

When he woke up in the morning, she was gone, and he was scratched, bruised, and sore. As he tried to get up, he found that he could hardly move. When he found the note laid neatly next to his pillow, he cursed.

_Joker,_

_I took enough blood to keep you down for month. Don't kill too many of your clowns, okay?_

_Love,_

_Your Vampire_


	2. Chapter 2

The Joker and his hench-clowns had burst into the casino, guns blazing, and all the people were cowering in terror. He had surveyed the crowd while he reassured them, pleased, until his eyes fell on the lone figure seated at a poker table, face impassive as she studied her cards. Her auburn hair glittered ethereally under the harsh lights, but she was wearing the same shoes, same dark jeans, the same white shirt as the night he had first seen her. The only difference was the black leather jacket she wore over everything else.

"It's you again," he said rather sourly, and then he brightened as he brandished a pistol in her direction. "But I've got the means this time… Understand?" She blinked slowly and tilted her head while she contemplated her hand. There were five cards, each with an elaborate, red and white back. That she was ignoring the Joker bothered him, made him angry. He approached her steadily, and she was still and calm.

"Hey, look at me," he said in a low voice, and when she did not, he said it again, with a frightening force. "_Look at me_." He leveled the pistol at her, and finally, she spoke.

"I can't imagine what you think that's going to do for you," she remarked, her voice just a clear as it had been. She shook hair out of her eyes and then looked at him with a mildly bored look. She smirked just a bit, and the tip of a fang shone beneath her upper lip. It was a warning, a reminder of what she was.

"No one can recover from a head shot," the Joker replied confidently, but felt it melting away as her expression never wavered.

"Play a hand with me," she said coolly, "Or maybe some Russian roulette?" The Joker huffed, peevish as a child now.

"Deal me in," he mumbled, sitting across from her, his eyes glued to her face. When no one approached, he snarled the same three words in such a way that a dealer came scurrying, dealt him his cards, and then vanished in terror. She ignored everything now, her eyes lowered back onto her cards, expression now soft, almost apathetic.

"So, ah, what are we, um, betting?" the Joker asked, loud enough for the crowd to hear. She glanced up at him.

"We're betting? Alright then," she looked around at their surroundings, holding her cards with one hand and resting the other on the green velvet, playing idly with a single chip. "How about if you win, you get free rein? Shoot up the casino, kill the people, kidnap someone for one of your infamous videos. Whatever."

"What?! You're going to get us all killed!"

"You're crazy!"

"You're playing with all our lives here, not just yours!" She refused to let anything bother her as she stared the Joker down, her black eyes boring into him.

"And if I lose?" he asked, and she smiled sweetly.

"You walk out. Nothing happens," she answered, and then laid down a card and picked another off the top of the deck. She did not spare the card a glance, still locking him with her gaze.

"Alright then," the Joker said, and looked at his cards. He did the same as she had, discarding one and taking another since the dealer was nowhere to be seen. He grinned triumphantly at his hand.

"Show 'em," he said, "You can't beat this hand." He laid his full house on the table. She blinked at his hand, and he grinned, hand moving to the revolver he had laid on the table.

"Better than I thought you'd do," she remarked, and then added, "Walk it out, Joker." She laid her straight royal flush out on the table, and he stared incredulously at the cards. The queen of spades seemed to be mocking him somehow. He rose from his chair in a daze, and in his usual tones, commanded his clowns to pack it up and skip out. He followed, still frightening to behold, still just as dangerous as ever, leering at everyone, but there was a hint of confusion in his eyes. When he was gone, everyone let out their breath, turning to mob the girl with thanks, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished, and though many people were looking for her, she was simply gone.

The vampire crouched on top of the casino building, listening to the first sirens of the police cars make their way to the casino. There was the flapping of cloth in the wind behind her, and she did not even bother to turn and look.

"Were you the one who made the bet?" the Batman's voice rasped, and she smiled, though it remained unseen by the Dark Knight.

"Yes," she said simply, and she heard his step when he prepared to lunge at her. She turned the most graceful somersault over the edge of the building, falling into the empty space.

"What?" Bruce Wayne gasped, perturbed as he looked over the edge at the street far below. The girl had vanished without a trace, and how, he could not answer. There was no ledge, and the balcony was at least three stories down. There would have been noise if she had landed on it, and she should not have been able to get back up so quickly after the fall. He was frozen for a few minutes, mind unable to comprehend her complete disappearance. The very idea bothered him for the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

"Come in, Bruce," said the cool voice, and it sent a chill through him as he pushed the ajar door to the billiards room open. The girl was there, the lightening sky of dawn just behind her. She looked exactly the same as she had in the early evening of the night before, when she had performed as the night's entertainer in the high class club that Bruce had visited in an attempt to keep up his millionaire playboy image. Her rich auburn hair fell over her shoulders, bared in her halter dress. The dress itself was sleek and modern, an affair of black satin that emphasized her pale skin and gorgeous hair. She was leaning on her pool cue, relaxed and at ease, but somehow cold and distant, still as a piece of white stone.

"How did you get in here?" he demanded, stern in his combination of excitement and anger, his voice roughening into the one he used as the Dark Knight. She looked at the pool table, eyes wandering aimlessly over the multicolored balls on the table, ignoring his question.

"Who are you?" Bruce tried again, his tone becoming deeper and more gravelly, unable to help himself. He had spent two weeks looking for this elusive girl, and now that she was here in his house, he was exerting all his self-control to keep himself from pinning her to the pool table and getting the answers that had plagued him since the casino incident.

"Who am I?" she mused softly, as if reflecting briefly on the question. She stepped around to the furthest corner of the table from him, and lined up her shot before precisely and neatly sinking the red three. She straightened and looked him dead in the eye from across the table. Bruce froze, his blood going cold as her dead-of-night black eyes fixated on his. He felt fear scramble up his spine.

"Do you have a name?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. He was unnerved by her gaze though her expression was as smooth and unreadable as the blank face of a wall.

"Aeron," she answered, nodding at the rack of pool cues behind him. He found himself inexplicably reaching for one, and she racked the balls in the meantime. At a loss for anything else to say, he asked about the only other night he had seen her.

"Are you the girl who saved the people at the casino?" he asked, feigning ignorance. She sighed delicately as she picked up the black eight ball, but did not drop it in the rack.

"Don't bother," she murmured, leaning the cue in the crook of her arm and passing the eight from hand to hand, rolling it across her palms. "I know you've been looking for me, _Batman_." Her tone was ever so slightly mocking on the name of his alter ego. There was a pause as he digested that, controlling his violent urge to force her to tell him everything she knew. His voice quivered when he answered.

"How do you know?" he demanded, his voice slipping back into Batman's again. She dropped the eight into the rack, unconcerned.

"I know a lot of things," she answered, passing a hand over the rack before lifting the frame. The balls shimmered briefly and then turned jet black and Bruce paled considerably.

"How did you do that?" he asked, the shaking pervading his voice as he fell back into his normal voice. He was confused, trying to comprehend how any of the things she had done were possible, and he felt more than a little lightheaded.

"Why does it matter?" she asked, lining up the cue ball. When her fingers left it, it also turned black.

"It's… impossible," he said, hesitating over each word as he tried to articulate through his confusion.

"The line that divides possibility and impossibility is thin, Bruce," she answered flatly, "You of all people know that."

"No, it's not," he argued, but he was reeling.

"Don't hurt yourself," she observed, her eyes flashing over him and taking in his now awkward stance. For once, her expression was not entirely blank, and the edge of contempt in her abyss-like eyes was like a physical blow to him. He flinched away from her though he didn't want to, unnerved by both her sudden unnatural stillness as her eyes bored into him and his own sudden terror of her. His reaction was deep and instinctive, and he was vaguely aware of being caught between the desire to run away and the nearly irresistible pull to get closer.

"Don't be afraid," she said softly, breaking the tense silence, "When the line blurs, you get closer to the true reality of things."

"Ignorance is bliss," he replied automatically, breaking the eye contact and looking down at the table. He found relief in the small action, and a lessening of the magnetism she seemed to be exuding.

"Truth is power," she answered, and he looked askance at her, unsure of how to take the simple statement. "And power…" she paused a beat and he couldn't resist watching her, "Power is something you want, is it not?"

"What do I need power for?" Bruce asked, almost offended. He had all the money he could possibly ever need, he was one of the most influential people in Gotham, and he had his occupations. What more could he need or ask for? She laughed derisively, and he caught a glimpse of gleaming white teeth with longer, pointed canines. Some part of his mind reflexively screamed in abject horror, but it was muted and he didn't notice.

"What do you need power for?" she mocked, wielding her pool cue like a queen's scepter, or a fairy's wand. "You wish me to believe that you don't want to catch the criminals out there in Gotham? You don't want revenge for the death of your parents? You don't want to catch the Joker?" She leveled the wood at his chest, her face suddenly contemptuous and cold again. "Don't make me laugh. And don't lie to me or yourself." Bruce flushed with anger and embarrassment, and then a breath later, the sun rose over the horizon and she was silhouetted against a backdrop of steadily brightening light.

"So are you offering me power?" he demanded, just as the light was growing too bright for him to stand looking directly at it much longer.

"If you prove that you deserve it and are willing to take it, perhaps," she mocked, and he tore his eyes away from the blinding brilliance, blinking, trying to rid himself of the imprint of her figure on his retinas. When he glanced back, he merely re-blinded himself, but it took only a moment to realize that she was gone, her cue laid neatly along the length of the table next to the racked balls which were all their proper colors again. He turned away, and paused in the doorway as he was walking out of the room.

"Damn!" he snarled, slamming a fist against the doorframe. Then composing himself, he went to find Alfred.


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred ripped his shoes out of the ice with a decisive cracking sound. He had been shocked to see the girl laid across the air conditioning machine as if it were an altar. She was pale, as if she had been bled, but there was no frozen river of red on her throat, chest, or in the snow. The majority of her skin was exposed because she was only wearing denim short shorts and a tank top. Her hair was a brilliant auburn, coppery and gorgeous. It curled and waved wildly with natural grace, its fullness making up for the lack of curves on her frame. Her long legs hung limply over one edge, her head tipped back over the other. Her body was arched back, mockingly erotic, but when Alfred touched the girl's hand, it was ambient temperature. She was cold, relatively stiff, and most certainly dead. The fingers of his free hand brushed her throat and suddenly her eyes were open and his wrist was enclosed in a grip of steel. His heart jumped, skittered, skipped a beat, and then pounded in his chest as he stared into her obsidian eyes.

"Don't touch me," she said quietly. Her voice was flat, with a hint of an edge to it.

"Miss, you're as cold as ice," Alfred said, recovering from his fright. He was still trying to understand how she was alive. "You should come in and warm up. I'm sure I can find some clothing for you." The girl pushed his hands away, releasing him. He glanced at his wrist, resisting the desire to rub it. Purple marks were quickly appearing in the shape of her slender fingers.

"I'm fine," she answered, and then looked up sharply as it began to snow. Alfred followed her gaze, looking at the gray blanket of clouds that blocked out the sky and sun and the white crystals falling from it.

"Miss, may I suggest a cup of coffee and a change of clothes?" the old man said tentatively, and then her gaze was riveted on his again.

"No, I don't want anything," she said, but there was something curiously far away in her expression.

"It doesn't help to dwell on the past," Alfred ventured nonchalantly, and her focus sharpened instantly. Then the cold in her face thawed and she looked amused, possibly even affectionate.

"You're very perceptive," she said, "Or an excellent guesser. Perhaps both. I could like you." Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"My master finds some use in my perception and luck in guessing," he said, cordially offering a hand. She took it with all the grace of a queen, and he kissed her knuckles before pulling her to his side and tucking her arm in his. His heart was curiously still pounding and something whispered warningly in the back of his mind though the action had seemed so natural.

"Hindsight is 20/20," she replied demurely, "And so is not memory the clearest reflection one has? Colored as it is by one's perception and changing experiences?"

"Sometimes, we prefer illusions," he answered, but he was beginning to feel uneasy. The thought echoed in his mind, 'This young woman should be dead.'

"True," she answered, her bare feet making less noise than his shoes as they walked toward a side entrance into Wayne Manor, "But illusions are not real, and therefore hinder one from properly dealing with the real world." Alfred shivered as the cold from the air and her body began to seep into his heavy overcoat, and using his freehand, he pulled it tighter around himself.

"Preference and necessity are different," he replied, and opened the door. She preceded him, breezing into the kitchen while he shut the door. She peered into the pantry, and then sniffed at the scent rising from a pot of soup.

"Necessity takes precedence over preference," she murmured, just loud enough to be audible.

"Are you hungry?" Alfred asked, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into the pocket of his coat before hanging that on a peg by the door. She turned and smiled at him and his heart skittered again. The difference made by the happiness suddenly in her face was nothing short of extraordinary. Her expression had gone from emotionless and cold to brilliant and bright. Yet, though her dark eyes sparkled, it was only superficial. Light disappeared into the depth of those eyes like an abyss. Still, she was beautiful despite her exceptionally slender body and its lack of 'womanly charms.'

"No, but thank you kindly for the offer," she said, smiling. Her teeth were very white behind her pale, soft pink lips. They were not full or thin, almost unremarkable except for the similarity in shade to her skin tone. She unsettled Alfred more, though subconsciously, because she had been ambient temperature and now she was standing in the heat of the kitchen and seemed to feel no pain.

"Perhaps you'd like a bath then?" he asked, coming toward her again and motioning her to follow. She was close behind him as he led the way to a bathroom.

"A bath sounds excellent," she answered, "I don't think I could thank you enough for that." Her voice was grateful, but had cooled excessively. There was an undercurrent of smugness in her tones, but Alfred could not possibly fathom why it was there. He opened the door to a spare bedroom.

"You can have this room, miss…" he trailed off, looking at her.

"Aeron," she said, "But I won't need the room. Just a bath."

"I'm sure I can find something to fit you, but really, Miss Aeron, do you have anywhere else to stay?" Alfred pressed though he felt uneasy about doing so.

"I do," she said, "But I again thank you for the offer." She passed into the room and smiled at him again, staring into his eyes. It was uncomfortable to look into those night dark eyes, and Alfred heard himself speak as if from a distance.

"Very well," he said, "I will be in the kitchen if you need me." The door shut in his face, and he shook himself, trying to rid himself of the wariness that was growing. The door in front of him seemed suddenly foreboding, as if it were hiding some dark secret. He walked away to find clothes to leave outside the door before he returned to the kitchen.

Aeron shed her shorts and shirt while the bathwater was running. It was extra hot because she liked it that way. The heat would cling to her for hours and for at least two she would be blood-warm. It was a feeling she liked, but not one that she experienced all that often. She shut off the water and climbed in, settling into it with a sigh. She could have an hour of peace before she went hunting, and it would make her much more focused. Granted, she hunted with intensity, but she would be in the mood to play with her food tonight. Drinking away blood, life, and death would be that much more satisfying for it.

Tendrils of her hair drifted across the surface of the water, glimmering and gleaming in the light despite the fact that it was wet. Beneath her hair and the water lay her limbs, still deathly white but less cold as she adjusted to her current environment.

"Miss Aeron?" Alfred called through the bedroom door. There was a splash a heartbeat before she answered.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice so very flat and expressionless.

"I'm leaving you a set of clothes outside the door," he said, "I had to make judgments about your size, but they will, hopefully, fit."

"Thanks," she called, sounding suddenly amused. Alfred had a brief image of her smirking, but another splash broke it as soon as it had formed. The door still looked like it was hiding something, so Alfred left. He felt perturbed. Something about her was off, and the memory of her eyes was unsettling.

"When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you," his mind whispered. And her name rang some far off bell in the depths of his memory, but then he was in the kitchen and the soup required stirring and the pasta required starting. The garlic bread was still frozen and the strawberry shortcake needed to be put together out of loose ingredients. Master Bruce was having company over tonight, another one of his many 'girlfriends.'

Roughly an hour and a half had passed before Aeron had finally gotten out of the tub. The water's heat had faded away, leaving her warming it instead of the other way around. She let it drain and then stepped into the shower, turning it as hot as it would go. She used the shampoo and the body wash, and then rinsed all of the suds away. She towel dried her hair and body, and then tied her hair up with the same towel. She opened the door and snatched up the clothes and shut the door again, all in one blurring movement. She sorted out the clothes that Alfred had retrieved and laid them out on the impeccably made bed. She set aside the thermal shirt. It was made in the 'henley' style, a row of buttons running down the front. She looked at the pants and the jacket and merely shook her head. Both were too big for her, and unlike the thermal, would be uncomfortable. She took the shirt back into the bathroom and put on the henley before pulling the tank top down over it. She pulled on her shorts, and disdaining the too-large flip-flops, she walked out of the room still barefoot.

She padded down the hallways nearly soundlessly, weaving her way toward the front door of the mansion. There was a steady scent of fresh air coming from it, and when she reached it, she slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her. She raced down the steps and ran ever faster as she hit the snowy field by the driveway. She ran toward the city like a streak of copper lightening that no one could see. She needed a pair of jeans and sneakers, and she needed to hunt.

"Miss Aeron?" Alfred called through the door, and then he called again. When there was still no answer, he stepped through the door, failing to notice that he no longer felt hesitant to touch or open it. He saw the pants, jacket, and shoes laid neatly across the bed, but the shirt and the clothes she had worn were gone. The bath and shower, however, were still wet from use, and some copper hairs had been collected around the drains. She was no figment of imagination, but she had vanished without much more trace. Alfred was dumbfounded, but had little time to dwell on it as he heard his master's voice calling him, albeit faintly. The old butler hurried toward the entrance hall, scratching his head.


	5. Chapter 5

Aeron turned away from her kill licking her lips and smearing more blood across her mouth in the process. She was soaked in it, her prostitute get-up entirely ruined. Still, it had been worth it. It had been a long time since she had had the chance to… _play_ with her prey. She sauntered down the alley, flicking hair over her shoulder and smirking while she licked her fingers in a leisurely sort of way. She was the very picture of a self-satisfied glutton.

"And I though-**tuh** _I_ made a mess," the Joker's voice said behind her. She looked over her shoulder, her smirk turning into an open mouthed leer.

"I like making a mess," she said, her voice throaty and rich and so very different from the cool self-possession usually present in it. The Joker gestured toward the hood of the car.

"Where'd you hide the piano wire?" he asked. The vampire shrugged, lewdly running her tongue over her fangs.

"The purse is in the car," she answered before continuing to saunter down the alleyway, leaving the Joker behind. She disappeared in the combined rain and darkness as if she had never been there.

But, of course, she had been there, and Commissioner Jim Gordon paled when he heard the report. He had difficulty not vomiting when he finally arrived on the scene the next morning. It was… horrifying to say the least.

"Is this the Joker's work?" he asked no one in particular incredulously.

"No, sir, we haven't found any joker cards at all," one officer said, standing by his side with camera in hand. She spared a glance at the mutilated corpse of the pimp on the hood of the Cadillac Escalade and swallowed hard. Both ripped their eyes away and went around the corner so they could at least feel like they were breathing air free of horror.

"Any clues?" Jim asked the blonde woman, but she shook her head.

"No, sir, the officers who were first on the scene found him just like that." There was a moment of silence before she continued. "But we've identified him. Jamar Buttle, aged 34 years, a known pimp and cocaine dealer. We've reports of him picking up a prostitute last night, then disappearing with her."

"Find the prostitute," Jim said instantly, and the woman nodded.

"We've a couple of officers already trying to find that information," she said, "But we won't know much more until the forensics come back. Unless we find the prostitute."

There wasn't much more to do or say, so Jim went back to his office and tried not to think about drinking while on duty. There was a knock on the door and he sighed and fell into his chair before telling the knocker to come in. He frowned at the pale girl who shut the door and then sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Who are you?" he asked, his eyebrows knitting. "Does your mother know you're here?" He rubbed his face as he stared at her. She was lean, all slenderness and angles and there was something hard about her, something… unsettling. He felt fear chill his insides.

"I don't exist and my mother died a long time ago," she said with a cryptic smile, lacing her fingers and resting her elbows on the arms of her chair. Her posture said as blatantly as possible, 'I have the power.'

"Sorry, miss, but I have to think you exist considering you're sitting here talking to me," Jim said, narrowing his eyes at her through his glasses.

"I suppose I should clarify," the girl said, "I don't exist in your records, city, state, national, or otherwise."

"Even if that was possible, miss, I don't know why that would matter," he said, closing his eyes and pushing his glasses up his nose in irritation. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I have work to do."

"Your forensics report will come back with an unknown set of fingerprints and possibly some samples of hair. My fingerprints and hair, to be precise," she said calmly. Jim could only look confused.

"Which forensic report? Are you playing a joke on me, young lady?" he said, getting even more irritated.

"The forensic report for the Jamar Buttle case," the girl said matter of factly. Jim was dumbstruck into silence. The name hadn't been released to the public yet. Hell, the press was only just starting in on the case. How did she know the name? And why was she saying that…

"Were you the prostitute?" he demanded. She nodded, the hint of a smile on her face.

"I was," she said, and then a smirk appeared on her face, "I was also the killer." His jaw dropped, his mind whirling in panic, whipped into frenzy as her very presence continued to disturb him.

"I can give you all of the information you'll get on the report in a couple of days," she continued, sounding like she was selling him the latest and greatest electronic instead of giving him the details of a murder. "He died at precisely 3:39 AM this morning on the hood of his cream, Cadillac Escalade SUV, bound to the car with piano wire which had also been used as a tourniquet on his arm, presumably after his hand had been severed at the wrist at roughly 1:48 AM and used as a gag." The girl stopped and lifted a delicate eyebrow. "Should I continue? You look rather… ill, Commissioner Gordon." Jim Gordon was, indeed, very pale. He coughed, trying not to vomit again as he saw the scene from this morning come alive in his mind with this strange girl in front of him as the perpetrator. What was just as horrifying to him was that he could so clearly _see_ her as the murderer in his mind.

"Of course, the times on your report won't be quite as precise as those I just gave you," she said with a deliberate shrug. Her mannerisms fit into his vivid images of her as the killer too well. He could almost see her delicately and deliberately pulling a man apart, except that she seemed too small and not strong enough to do so.

"You realize that this means I have to arrest you," Jim said finally, past the dryness in his throat.

"You can try," she responded readily, "But you're not going to. And don't be so nervous," she added, eyes flashing over the man. "Relax, I'm not going to eat you. I'm quite sated." She flashed him a cunning, razor sharp smile. His head spun and buzzed with disbelief mixed with panic.

"I have to arrest you," he said, clinging to that idea, clutching his desk the way he did his perception of normality. She merely laughed, suddenly no longer in her chair and sitting on the desk with his face nearly in her lap, legs crossed elegantly. He reared back and shied away from her, stumbling over his chair in the process. She blew him a mocking kiss.

"I promised I wouldn't hurt you," she cooed, her black eyes shimmering with amusement, "Or rather, I told you that I'm sated enough to not want to eat you right now."

"What are you?" he gasped, feeling his heart thundering away impossibly loudly in his chest. He backed away a few more steps, then remembered his gun and drew it. She laughed again.

"You wouldn't even have the chance to shoot me," she said, her expression caught somewhere between an arrogant leer and utter disdain. As if to prove her point, she vanished and then he was pinned against the filing cabinets by a small, lithe body that had more strength that it should have. He pressed himself further back into the cabinets, but she pressed into him that much harder, his gun hand caught between their bodies. The tilt of her mouth was seductive, but her eyes were distant and cold and blank. He was utterly terrified of her.

"You won't arrest me because you can't and you won't track me because I don't exist," she murmured, cruelty creeping into her face. "What will you do now, Jim Gordon?" Abruptly, she walked away from him and to the door. She paused there, hand on the doorknob, and looked back at him. His chest was heaving with hyperventilation, his gun was visibly wavering as he pointed it at her. She offered him that razor smile again.

"You should go talk to Bruce Wayne and his butler, Alfred," was her parting shot, and then she disappeared out the door. The instant she was gone, Jim felt like he could breathe and suddenly he wanted to catch her and arrest her. He bolted for the door and tore it open, but there was no one there but his secretary. She looked up at him with wide, startled eyes.

"Do you need something, sir?" she asked hesitantly, eyeing his pistol with trepidation.

"The girl who just came out of my office, where did she go?" he demanded hotly. His secretary looked confused.

"What girl?" she asked, "No one's been here since you returned from the crime scene this morning." Jim bit out a curse and disappeared back into his office without a word. Her words seemed to linger.

"_You should go talk to Bruce Wayne and his butler, Alfred."_ Jim paced his office for a moment, then slumped into the chair behind his desk in defeat and prepared to call the number.

"Alfred, right? Could I talk to Mr. Wayne, please?" he asked.


End file.
